Author's Notes

Disclaimer: C.S. Lewis owns the Chronicles of Narnia, not I!

Rated: T for intensity and references to death.

Welcome to Chapter 3! I struggled with it for a bit, but since I've gotten to the point where all I'm still fussing with is punctuation, I think it's ready to post! Thank you to LunaNigra, Sentimental Star, and GuitarGirl496 for your reviews of Chapter 2! And thanks so much to those of you have put me on alert. I assure you, I have written down every one of your pen names and am checking out your writings as well. You guys are amazing!

Now, for the chapter at hand. Are we all still worried about Lucy?

You should be...

***

Perhaps it was because the verse was book-ended by the words "brother" and "sister." Perhaps it was because Lu had read it over his shoulder not an hour ago. Perhaps it was just the stress of the moment that brought such an absurd thing to the surface of his mind. But unaccountably, the words of a riddle sing-songed through Peter's consciousness as he pounded up the steps of Cair Paravel in search of Lucy's healing cordial:

Brother to the heights, am I.

The voice of a young prince turned king.

A well from which you would wish to drink.

A sibling's devotion may sink into me.

A canyon, a gorge, an abyss, a ravine.

The wound that is slowest to heal.

Of breadth, I am a sister.

Absurd, absurd! Peter tried to banish it from his mind as he raced to the topmost tower of the castle. He was winded by the time he reached the balcony where the Griffins kept their quarters. A small bevy of them stood in the late summer sun, letting a gentle wind stir their brown and golden feathers. Peter literally fell through the door onto the flagstones.

"Griffins!" he gasped to the stunned audience of creatures, scrambling to his feet. "Willow Wing! Where is she?"

"She has gone, My Lord," one of the Griffins replied, startled by His Highness's disheveled state. "To her ancestral home in the Heights, where a litter of young ones has been borne to her brother and his mate…"

"No!" Peter dug his fists into his face and cursed, causing a bewildered stir among the Griffins. No, he must speak to Willow Wing!

"Your Highness, what is wrong?" Highfleet, a golden fellow who had stood beside Peter in the battle against the White Witch six years ago, raised his wings at the sight of his King in distress.

"Queen Lucy is dying and her cordial is nowhere to be found!" Peter choked out. The Griffins made hissing sounds of dismay and crowded round him. "I thought, since this morning she talked of riding Willow Wing…"

Before Peter could even finish his sentence, there was a rushing of fur and feathers, talons and beak. Highfleet lashed his tail and leaped from the tower into the air, calling over the flurry of his wings, "I shall bring her back, Sire!" Then he was gone, a golden arrow in the sky.

"Thank you!" Peter cried. "And hurry!"

"Willow Wing left not ten minutes ago," one of the remaining three Griffins said comfortingly, "And Highfleet is far faster than she. If she knows the whereabouts of Queen Lucy's cordial, she shall tell him. Come!" He clapped his wings in the air. "Featherfoot, Tailwind! We shall search the castle grounds for Queen Lucy's cure!" And, brushing their wings against Peter in sympathy, the Griffins dove from the balcony, zigzagging over the lawn. It was a sight that would normally have filled his heart with joy.

Peter turned and began the rapid descent from the tower, breathing hard but not daring to slow in his steps. Below him he heard courtiers calling to one another, their voices loud and frightened. And no wonder. Narnia loved Lucy, loved her with all Aslan had given it. Just as he and Edmund and Susan loved her with primal devotion. It was the way of the land to love one's brothers and sisters so. No wonder Willow Wing had hurried off, to see her brother's nestlings in the Heights! The words began their relentless sing-song:

Brother to the heights.

Of breadth, I am a sister.

Brother. Sister. His Lucy, his darling, almost like a daughter to him! When had they gotten so close? Lucy was fifteen, still a baby in Peter's heart. It would always be thus. Peter had told her one day, half joking but quite honest, that she may as well give up trying to be a grown-up around him, because it would break his heart if he suddenly found that she wasn't a wide-eyed innocent any more. Lucy had accepted it, a wise smile hidden in the depths of her blue eyes. "That's all right Peter," she had replied, pressing a kiss into his beard. "You've had a hard enough time watching Susan and Edmund become adults, poor fellow! I don't mind not growing up." Peter had embraced her gratefully. So had all Narnia, for their Queen's youth was a source of eternal spring to them. Peter didn't think he could face the day when her bright spirit no longer flooded the castle.

Aslan help us! Surely that day has not come so soon!

His breath knifed into his chest by the time he reached the breakfast room where they had all gathered that morning. The day had started here. Surely Lucy had been carrying her cordial then! But he couldn't remember. Not one of them could remember. The cordial was as much a part of Lucy as her hair or eyes, and yet no one seemed able to recall if they had seen it on her or not! Had she taken it off when they sat at table, since always Susan insisted Peter and Edmund lay aside their swords?

Peter knelt down and began searching the carpet under the carved table, the weaving of red and green vines and gold and blue flowers under Lucy's chair. He'd been talking with Ed about the Archenlanders, hadn't he? And enjoying a meal of fresh eggs and sweet cakes. Lucy and Su had been discussing something about the Archenlanders' tribute. He hadn't once looked right at the bottle of cordial. Confound it, why hadn't he noticed? He was the elder brother! Wasn't he supposed to be aware of every hair on his sister's head, every restless movement of her fingers, every thoughtful expression? On his hands and knees, Peter searched the whole length and width of the breakfast room, but there was no evidence of the cordial anywhere. He knelt on the floor by his sister's chair and buried his face in his hands.

"Lu," he whispered. "Where is it? When did I see it last? When did I see you last?"

She had come to his study in the afternoon, Peter remembered, looking windblown and impish in he riding habit, and asked if he had seen Edmund. Peter, engrossed in the enigma before him, had been vague in his reply to her. It was that silly little verse he had been puzzling over all morning, when the others thought he was drafting a letter of alliance to King Lune. What an inappropriate time for him to be toying with such a thing! Yet he couldn't make himself put it down. It was the Archenlander envoy's fault, actually. One of the fellows had left the riddle for Peter to solve, and it had been tickling at his mind ever since.

"We have heard that Your Majesty is fond of puzzles," the Lord Ewan had smiled. "Perhaps you should like to try your hand at this one." And he had slipped a little parchment into Peter's hand.

Now, Peter did have a fancy for riddles, and from the first line, this one had him interested. Lucy had discovered him racking his brains over it when she came to ask about Edmund. She read it over the King's shoulder, smiling at his absorption in it. He had been so distracted that he barely recalled the sensation of her kiss against his hair, or her soft voice asking him to tell her when the riddle was solved. And he'd been fussing with it still when Susan came in to inquire about the Archenland alliance. Peter had barely opened his mouth to reply when Edmund rushed into the study, their little Lucy white-faced and limp in his arms.

High King Peter touched the carved back of Lucy's chair and strangled a sob. "Oh Lu," he gasped. "You must make it! You wanted to know the answer, remember?"

Even as the tears trickled down Peter's face and into his beard, he pulled himself to his feet, thinking that he should check the east hall of the house where he had told Lu to look for Edmund. If Lucy had gone out on Willow Wing, there was nothing he could do until the Griffins returned. Best start with the places he knew she had been. The house was echoing with sound by now, courtiers' footsteps ringing on the stones, voices high and low calling from room to room, doors being flung open. It was reassuring to know that so many were involved in the search. The noise was a comfort.

And then the sound of Susan's despairing wail rent Peter's heart.